Sins of The Father
by laylaw
Summary: Kate Pierce has been haunted by the memories of Bogota since she was a child. Memories of a man with a metal arm. He's more than a by-product of her PTSD, he's real. But sometimes, some secrets are better left buried. (Winter Soldier/OC)


" _What's past is prologue." –William Shakespeare_

 **Chapter 1:**

A great philosopher named Michael Corleone once said, "Keep your friends close and your enemies closer." Now that's all well and good, the only problem is that often times the line between friend and foe can become blurred. By the time you focus in enough to tell the two apart, it's too late.

Standing inside Gloria's Café, nursing a caramel macchiato, I saw those lines blur before my eyes. Beyond the large bay window, rows of tables and chairs lined the sidewalk. Washington was in the middle of a heatwave and everyone had decided to enjoy their morning coffee outside. But it was the glimpse I'd caught while standing in line that caused an anxious stirring in my gut.

The bell above the door chimed, as I exited the café. A wall of humidity overwhelmed me, the heat resting thick and heavy in the air. A short distance away, sitting beneath a candy stripe canopy was a man trying too hard to blend in. Chewing on a biscotti and flipping through a copy of that morning's paper, looking for all the world like another nameless face in the crowd. Except he wasn't, and I had enough experience to know when someone was tailing me.

My nerves were frayed wires, exposed and unstable, every impulse telling me to run. A myriad of scenarios played out in my mind, each one more terrifying than the next.

 _Run while you still can._

The anxiety grew, sprouting roots that spread inside my chest and twisted around my lungs. It was hard to breathe, and I knew I was seconds away from a panic attack when the man looked up from his paper. Our eyes locked on one another for a brief moment before he looked away. It was enough to force back my ratcheting nerves.

Before I knew what I was doing, I'd forced myself ahead to the man's table. I closed the distance in a few quick steps, pulling a chair out, metal legs scraping on the cement. He eyed me from above the sports section as I sat down.

"Can I help you with something?" he asked.

Hands clutched around a Styrofoam cup, I held tight, hoping to steady the shake that was desperate to get out.

"A little overdressed for biscotti, aren't we?" I said.

He stopped mid-chew, the corner of his lip quirked upward.

"Excuse me?"

"The S.H.I.E.L.D. issue Kevlar vest you're wearing under that shirt." I gestured to his tight, black t-shirt. It was hard to notice the discrete bulge underneath his shirt unless you knew what to look for.

I took a sip from my macchiato, sizing up the man across the table. Bulging biceps that fought against the constricting black cotton tee, hair weighed down with product, combed away from his face. He was larger than most of the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents I'd met. There was something about him that was familiar, something about his face that I couldn't yet place.

"Are you expecting a firefight? Should I be worried?"

He forced a smiled. "You caught me."

Devilish brown eyes captured my gaze. I lingered on them, roving over his angular jawline, dusted with stubble. He was dangerous; built of hard muscle and sharp edges. The very site of it disturbed old memories, memories from years ago in a city on fire. Standing amongst a pile of burning rubble, he'd broken my camera with the heel of his boot.

His name whispered across my mind.

"Rumlow, right? Is that a cover or your civilian name?"

"How did-"

"I'm skilled at my job." I took a drink of my coffee.

"You mean writing trash for Weekly World News? See any flying saucers lately?"

"Not since New York. How about you? You were there, right?" I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from adding, _you still owe me a new camera, dick!_ The look of irritation on his face would have to suffice. A muscle in his jaw ticked. He spoke next through clenched teeth.

"I see I left an impression."

"Not a good one." I sat my drink down. "Let's cut the small talk. Why the hell are you following me?"

I had a sinking suspicion that I already knew the answer to the question, but I wanted to hear it out loud.

"Your father's been worried about you."

 _There it is._

"So, he sent his lapdog to spy on me?"

Rumlow bristled. The biscotti in his hand threatened to come apart in a burst of crumbs and almonds from his ever tightening fingers. The dessert fell with a stale thump as he dropped it onto the ceramic plate. He brushed his hand across the leg of his pants, forehead creased with annoyance.

"He wanted to make sure you were doing all right."

"You know, they have this fancy knew thing called a phone."

"If he had called, would you have picked up?"

 _No._

"We haven't spoken since New York. Why is he extending the olive branch now?"

Rumlow's eyes shifted to the forgotten biscotti, then back to me. It was quick, but I'd caught the hesitation.

"How long has he been watching me?" I asked.

"Not long-"

"How long?"

"Four months."

The words echoed inside my head, taunting me. My father's reach knew no bounds. The site of Rumlow sitting across from me, sipping his Americano was proof of that.

Hands shaking for an entirely different reason, I picked up my macchiato, knocking back my chair as I rushed to stand up. Rumlow made a move to follow, but I held up a hand.

"Don't," I warned, mouth set in a thin line. "Don't follow me."

"But you-"

"If I so much as catch a whiff of you tailing me, I will light your ass up like the Fourth of July." I tugged at the strap of my purse, feeling the reassuring weight of the Taser sitting inside. 30,000 volts of electricity could take down even the toughest of men.

"I'm just doing what I was told to do."

"Well you can give my father a message from me. Tell him if he wants to know how I'm doing, he can pick up a phone. I'm done being watched."

I didn't wait for a response before turning away from the sidewalk café. Coffee in hand, purse bouncing against my hip, I hurried in the direction of my apartment. All plans of how my day was supposed to go, tossed out the window as I tried to cover the two blocks to home in record time.

When I'd stepped out that morning, I had intended on being productive. Grab a quick coffee, head to the library to do some work, free of distractions like early morning t.v. and game consoles. Having it out with a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent over my daily caffeine fix was not part of my plans. Now that it was over, I couldn't get my mind to focus enough to go to the library, not the way it was spinning.

It wasn't a coincidence that four months ago my dad had put a security detail on me, right around the same time I'd started a file on S.H.I.E.L.D. The same time I'd begun digging into the backgrounds of a few high powered politicians, lining their pockets with money from offshore accounts. A tip had led me to connect some of the names to aliases belonging to a handful of agents within S.H.I.E.L.D. Beyond that, the trail had gone cold; I hadn't been able to turn up anything else in the last month. But the revelation that my father was keeping an eye on what I did in my spare time, only confirmed what I'd long suspected. There was something to hide, something big that went beyond the spectrum of superheroes and alien invasions. It was important enough that it had caught the attention of Alexander Pierce.

No, I didn't believe in coincidences. I'd learned that from my father; one of the few pieces of advice I'd bothered to listen to and it was going to bite him in the ass. There was something there, some reason he'd put eyes on me just when I'd started looking into S.H.I.E.L.D.

It was thirty minutes later, standing inside my apartment, hands buried in a potted plant that my boyfriend appeared in the doorway. Dressed in dark slacks and a blue, button down shirt, dark hair disheveled and cheeks flushed, he looked as if he'd just run home from work.

I stood frozen, bent over the ficus, watching as Tyler took in the destruction. The upturned couch cushions, the bookshelf stripped bare, books littering the hardwood floor, cabinet drawers open, dangling from their perch, and picture frames opened and tossed to the side. A whirlwind of crazy had torn a pathway through our home and was currently in the process of destroying a houseplant.

 _This is the moment he realizes his girlfriend is a bag of cats. The moment he realizes I'm too much crazy for him to handle. The moment he leaves-_

"Well, this is an interesting site to come home to." Tyler eased his messenger bag off his shoulder and leaned it against the wall. With cautious steps, he moved into the living room, uncertainty clear in his brown eyes. "Kate, what happened? What are you doing?"

I sighed, yanking my hands out of the pot, sending a spray of dark soil across the room.

"It's my dad."

Tyler stopped, took another look around the room. "What's your dad?"

Frustration coursed through my veins, lacing my words as I shouted, "This- this is my dad."

I grabbed the ficus around its braided trunk and with one quick pull, tore it free of the pot. Soil covered the floor, twisted roots dangling at the ends as I waved the houseplant around at Tyler.

"This is all him!"

Tyler stared. "Your dad's a ficus?"

"What? No." I tossed the plant onto the floor, knocking the pot onto its side in the process. "You've got to be kidding me."

Too tired to care, I stepped over the mess and collapsed into an armchair. The cushion was slanted on an angle, shoved back into place haphazardly, so that I sat half on the frame, wedged against the armrest. I closed my eyes, desperate to shut out the world. Reality had begun to sink in, weighing heavy on my chest, dragging me down. I had turned my apartment upside down looking for hidden cameras. This was not the life I wanted.

Plastic scraped along the hardwood. I opened my eyes to find Tyler sweeping spilled soil into a dustpan. He scooped up the remains of the pot and the broken ficus and dumped them into a green garbage bag.

"I was going to do that," I grumbled.

"Figured I'd toss it out before you decided to go a second round with our houseplant."

I watched in silence as Tyler went about sweeping away any sign of my paranoid outburst. He tied the ends of the bag, setting it in a corner by the front door. Somehow he managed to remain dirt free by the end of his cleanup, whereas I was covered. Dark bits of soil were embedded beneath my fingernails and tangled in my hair, and yet there he was, a picture of perfection.

"Shouldn't you be at the law office?" I asked.

"I forgot a file." He took a seat on the arm of the couch. "So, you want to tell me what that was all about?"

I groaned, dragging my hand across my face, forgetting for a moment that it was caked with dirt. With the hem of my shirt, I scrubbed at the dark streaks.

"It was my dad," I said. "He had someone follow me today. I just happened to spot them while I was grabbing my morning coffee."

"Whoa-"

"And that's not even the worst part. He's had people watching me for months. Can you believe that? Months, Tyler!"

The end of my shirt fell from shaking hands. Tyler closed the gap between us, feet soundless on the floor. His hands closed over mine, warm and steadying. He drew rough circles over my knuckles; fingers callused from his childhood spent on a farm. Calm eyes sought me out, forcing a shuddering breath from my lips.

"Thanks," I said, voice barely a whisper.

Tyler smiled. "I'd be lying if I said that wasn't insanely messed up."

"Just be thankful your dad milks cows for a living."

Tyler's eyes widened, realization dawning. "Do you think he had this place bugged?"

The look that washed over his face said he was seconds away from tearing apart the house himself. I tightened my fingers around his, holding him in place, stopping him from doing any more damage.

"It's not bugged. I checked."

"Are you sure-"

"Positive," I said. "If there was something here, I would have found it."

He wilted in relief.

The sound of Taylor Swift shouting about trouble shattered the stillness. From across the room, buried deep within the confines of my purse, my cellphone called out. It was a silly remix, edited with a screaming goat. Tyler had made it into my ringtone a few weeks earlier and I'd just been too lazy to get around to changing it.

I crossed the room, hurrying to beat the first series of goat screams, and failing. Shoving aside my wallet and day planner, I tugged the phone out just as the ringtone began to repeat. The caller I.D. that flashed on the screen caused a stutter in my heart.

 _Alexander Pierce._

Right then, a lifetime listening to goats scream Taylor Swift music seemed like a better alternative than talking to my father.

With a steadying breath, I pressed the talk button.

"Hey dad."

 **A/N:** Hope you all enjoyed the first installment. It's a slow start, but I promise it will pick up in the next few chapters. Just setting up all the pieces first before I start to knock them down. And you'll get your first glimpse of The Winter Soldier in the next chapter for sure. This story will be updated weekly, every Friday. Though maybe a little earlier this coming week as I'll be stalking Sebastian Stan at TIFF in Toronto. And by stalking I mean drooling from a distance.

If you're interested, I've made a trailer for this story, to give a little taste of what's to come: watch?v=lb613pmq3o0

And as always, comments are always appreciated. The good, the bad, lay 'em on me. I'm always wanting to improve my writing so anything you have to say is much appreciated. And if you see me messing up something in the Marvel/Captain America universe, please point it out to me. I'm sticking to the movies, but it's my first time playing in that sandbox, so I'm bound to have a slip-up or two.


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